military details, evidently picked up from orders issuing from
Brungarian rebel headquarters. They concerned incoming troop movements
from the north and operational plans for crushing out the last pockets
of resistance by loyal government forces.

Tom recorded them with TV tape, then snatched up the telephone and
called the Central Intelligence Agency in Washington. He relayed the
information from Exman and asked if American agents could transmit it to
the loyalists.

"Don't worry. Well see that it reaches them," the CIA chief assured Tom.
"Many thanks. This _could_ have important consequences."

As Tom hung up he decided on a bold move. "Dad, I'm going to lead a raid
on Balala!"

"A raid!" The elder scientist was electrified.

"According to the atlas, the island is barren and deserted," Tom said,
"so no friendly power will object if we land there. If it's being used
as an enemy base for quake attacks against our country, we have every
right to investigate. I might be able to learn the secret of the
setup--perhaps even put the equipment out of commission."

"Nevertheless, a raid by a United States force could lead to trouble if
the base there puts up any resistance," Mr. Swift said gravely.

"That's why I intend to handle it myself," Tom declared. "I'll take all
responsibility."

Tom Sr.'s eyes flashed as he recalled some of his own hair-raising
exploits in younger days. "All right, son," he said, putting a hand on
Tom's shoulder. "I know I can trust your judgment. Good luck!"

Again Tom issued a call for volunteers. Bud, Hank Sterling, Arv Hanson,
and Chow were all eager to take part. Within an hour they were taking
off for Fearing. At the rocket base, they embarked in the _Sea Hound_,
Tom's favorite model of his diving seacopter. A powerful central rotor
with reversible-pitch blades, spun by atomic turbines, enabled the craft
to rise through the air or descend into the deepest abysses of the
ocean. Propulsion jets gave it high speed in either medium.

Loaded with equipment, the _Sea Hound_ streaked southward through the
skies--first to Florida, then across the Gulf and Central America into
the Pacific. Here Tom eased down to the surface of the water and
submerged.

It was near midnight when the _Sea Hound_ rose from the depths just off
Balala. The lonely rocky island lay outlined like a huddled black mass
against the star-flecked southern sky. No glimmer of light showed
anywhere ashore.

"Maybe no one